


Sicilia

by choiminhovevo



Category: K-pop, SHINee
Genre: I have a travel boner, M/M, a very bitter Minho, and curses a ton, it's the only acceptable boner to have, punk ass bitch ass oversleeps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-23 01:09:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7460697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choiminhovevo/pseuds/choiminhovevo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minho oversleeps and misses his flight and endures a Wes Anderson amount of fictional misfortune when he's stuck in Sicily</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sicilia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Najla](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Najla).



Minho knew something was going to go to shit the moment he realized, for the first time in his relatively pretty okay adult life, he oversleeps and misses his flight. Him! Oversleeping? Choi Minho, the man who has never been late to anything _ever_ (even though he thinks his one true love is his mattress), misses the five courtesy alarms from the Korean Air app and three from his alarm clock respectively. Truly, hell has frozen over.

“Son of a motherfucking goddamn cocksucking dagnabbit hell-bound shitstorm,” Minho colorfully says about this predicament as he grabs his suitcase and travel satchel and almost knocks over the kind landlord that is in the apartment hallway. He barely notices the landlord’s bewildered face (because how does sweet and hardworking Choi Minho know all of this vitriol? Maybe he should attend church) and he nearly stumbles down the emergency stairs because the elevator is not fast enough; the luggage bouncing behind him, almost threatening to explode like a bottle of cola hits the pavement. Making it outside in record time, the Seocho subway stop is right by his apartment building, and by some lovely satanic witchcraft, the myriad of taxis that congest Seoul traffic are all either occupied or not nearby, so the subway is his only option. Start in Seocho, transfer to Yeondeong-pu, and take the line to Gimpo, and all it is a ten minute ride to Incheon International Airport. He figures it’s faster than taking it to Sindang and going to Seoul Station and waiting an hour and a half for a bullet train- with Korean Air telling him via app KE 147 service to Roma is on time at 11:30 (which is only an hour and a half away). He’s already checked in and his bag all accounted for, and with his perks he can do pre-check and waive the line, but still, Minho’s gunning for Korean Air to post their delays as they are wont to do (“voted most on-time airline my ass,” he grumbles). It’s 10:40 when he makes it to Magok, two stops away from the Gimpo Airport stop, and still no updates on delays and Minho starts to panic. Why didn’t his colleagues try calling him? Did they oversleep as well? If they are already at the gate and not trying to contact him he’s going to recreate those Mortal Kombat X X-ray moves he saw in a video game montage on YouTube.

It is a true stroke of horrible luck when he finally makes it to Incheon Airport and virtually bum-rushes the priority luggage line when the Korean Air app dings that KE 147 took off _early_ at 11:17. Minho literally drops his travel satchel [filled with important finance documents that his colleagues and his team supervisor don’t have and they were really counting on Choi Minho, junior finance analyst for a very important international banking firm to bring them and present them???] and stares at his phone’s notifications, and the lack of texts and missed calls from his colleagues.

He wishes he was Thunder God Raiden so he can 1.) instantly transport himself to Roma and 2.) respond to his colleagues’ failure to contact him with a masterful execution of the Shock Therapy X-ray. His legs are lead as they transport him to the ticket counter and the kindly Korean Air stewardess who is just leaving the express ticket kiosk. She notices his disparaging look and like a kind schoolmarm, she gently beckons him over and offers a consolatory smile. Minho can’t bring it in him to respond.

“Did you miss your flight?” She hazards to ask. _Were you born yesterday_? Minho swallows the gripe down- _she’s just trying to help you pleb_. “Flight 147, service to Roma, I uh, I overslept.” He could cry right now. “I don’t suppose there’s another flight?” He slides his phone over showing his boarding pass and his priority Morning Calm perks. The best situation, he thinks, is that he will be on the next flight tomorrow morning, and the thought of taking the walk of shame back to downtown Seoul is not on his list of Things to Do.

The stewardess offers a mighty reprieve from this shitstorm of a day. “Not to worry, there are _two_ flights to Roma today,” she begins. “The next one, however, is a stopover in Palermo first, then to Roma, with a-“she stops when she notices Minho’s giant doe eyes literally light up and she smiles at his abrupt mood change. She forgets what she was about to add. “It is in four hours. I can transfer you to that flight manifest, but,” she remembers what she was about to say, “it is a-“

“I’ll take it!” Minho interrupts as he hands over his passport and credit card. Four hours? That is a minor hiccup. He won’t beat his colleagues to Roma and he can’t execute Shock Therapy, but he’ll have the very important documents and they can continue to go on about their important adult business. The Korean Air stewardess prints him his boarding passes and it’s a free first class upgrade. Great! He can have a whiskey at 38 000 feet in the air and this mess can be behind him.

▲

It is when KE 372 service to Palermo, one of those infrequent seasonal stops that Korean Air does to partner up with other airlines, is in its climb to cruising altitude when Minho chances to look at his other boarding pass and notices the schedule date. He almost chokes on his whiskey and bites back the building desire to scream _are you fuCKING KIDDING ME_??? Complete with the rising inflection. Panic rises in his throat as he rapidly blinks because, he could be imagining the smudge of printer ink on the ticket and he could be misreading the date. What day is it again? When the plane evens out and the flight attendants are making their way through the first class cabin to serve amuse bouche, Minho stops one and shows her his ticket.

“Is that a misprint?” He asks, hopefully. The flight attendant kindly inspects it, and shakes her head.

“It’s correct,” she says. “It is a slow travel season between Sicily and Italy, so to cut back on travel costs, there’s only one flight a week.” She bows in apology and continues to hand him amuse bouche, which Minho wants to petulantly swat to the floor. He doesn’t, but he has a scowl on his face the entire meal, wide array of inflight entertainment, and he was most likely scowling in his sleep. He’s not feeling any better as he wakes up in time for breakfast service as they are over France and he is this close to begging the pilots to make an emergency landing in Paris but he is still above creating airline incidents. _Please don’t drag all of these people down with your misfortune, Choi_. It is 18:47 when the captain makes the announcement that they are making their descent into Palermo Falcone-Borsellino airspace. It’s another forty minutes when the giant 777 lands onto the tiny Palermo tarmac and taxis towards the- _there isn’t even a gate_!!!- and after several moments the aircraft doors are opening and they have to walk off the plane and onto the tarmac like it’s 1942 Casablanca _what the literal fuck_. Minho is full on glaring and he hates himself, everyone around him, and wishes the earth crumbles underneath the airport and swallows this pitiful capital and all its inhabitants into the Void. For mid-November, the air is surprisingly dry despite Sicily being an island, and the sea breeze is gentle and smells of earth, livestock, and salt. The sun is setting and almost casts a glittering orange glow over the landscape. If Minho cared, he would admit that Sicily is beautiful. The old-world charm that is slowly catching up to the times would be enchanting. But as he is told the airport would be on holiday for six days for some shit holy festival that the entire region (including the southern-most part of Italy and Sardinia) celebrates, he is hard-pressed to not give a shit. His glare is so hard-set he’s this close to _growling_. After getting through customs and getting his luggage, Minho is stuck outside by the taxi loop. For the other Koreans on the flight with him, they all seem to have a plan, for they took the remaining hotel shuttles, taxis, and some even splurge to rent a car. They seem to ignore their fellow Korean dressed all business casual and looking so lost and helpless with his luggage and his very important documents and- his colleagues! Minho snaps out of it enough to boot up his phone and is willing to pay for the exorbitant charges on his future phone bill. Sungmin, his sunbae and the one in Roma with Joonmyun, Jinki, and Kyuhyun (all sunbaes and all Minho likes to think they are close enough) is the one he calls because he knows he will answer the phone. He answers on the third ring.

“You finally wake up?” Sungmin has the nerve to joke and Minho’s rage resurfaces.

“You twat,” he growls into the receiver. “Any of you ever think to call me? Did any of you remember I! Have! The damn! Documents!”

“Is _that_ any way to talk to your sunbae?”

Minho huffs. “With all due respect sunbae,” he tries to calm down, “but you done _goofed_ , you quite fucked us all over.”

“Excuse me, I’m not responsible for a capable and functioning adult to keep track of time. We didn’t go out for drinks the night before or anything. That’s all on you.” Sungmin is right but also but as that man practically lives on his phone you’d think he’d remember to send Minho a courtesy text or some shit.

Minho’s face slacks into abject despair. “I took a connecting flight,” he begins.

“See? Don’t lose all hope.”

“I’m in Palermo.”

“You’re so close! You can take an early morning flight to Roma the next morning-“

“Did you know that Sicily shuts down the airport for the week for the Carnevale and holy Monreale festivals?”

“Say what now?”

“The airport, is _closed_ , _for the entire week_. I am stuck _here_ , for a _week_.” Silence on the other end.

“Well fuck me,” Sungmin says after a pregnant pause. “I feel like I done goofed.”

“Please find me other options to get to Roma faster,” Minho pleads. “I will do _anything_.”

“ _Anything_?”

“I swear, if you’re going to be an ass, I will assume my final form and use Raiden’s Displacer moves on you.”

“Huh. Kinda figured you to be more of a Scorpion kind of guy, but hang tight, my hoobae, let your trusty sunbae use Google and get you here as quick as possible. Now, go take a taxi, use the company card to check into a fancy overpriced hotel, and by the time you’ve taken a shower and eaten, you’ll feel much better. Life’s a journey!” Sungmin hangs up after he’s confirmed Minho has a taxi driver that can speak English, and Minho is whisked off in an aging cab with the driver being told brokenly, “any hotel, just, _any_.” And Minho is too scared to fall asleep in the back.

▲

Torreata Hotel & Residence is half an hour away from the airport, overlooking the Utveggio Castle. It has several free rooms and the staff knows English. Minho is set up with a room and he plops on the bed with fatigue seeping into his bones.

Sungmin calls to say all air traffic between Italy, Sardinia, and Sicily is suspended until the citizens are finished observing the holiday.

“Do you want to take a 15 hour taxi ride to Rome and spend, I’m just rounding up, six thousand Euros to get here?”

Minho responds by hanging up and going to sleep in his business casual wear, shoes and all.

▲

It’s 4:13 when Minho’s stomach grumbles in such protest he wakes up. He wills his stomach to endure it until at least he’s sure that the hotel restaurant is open but his stomach is stronger than his brain, so he gets up (wants to wash his face, it feels dried up and oily all at once but doesn’t) and grabs his wallet and room key and leaves. There’s a faint hum of the lights that always seems deafening at four am. Minho takes the elevator down to the lobby, where the reception desk is shrouded in darkness. The lobby is empty, save for one man walking out of the front doors. He walks with an air of confidence and leisure, like it’s very natural to be walking out into downtown Palermo at the crack of dawn (but _look_ at him). Minho is overcome with the urge to follow, so he does. The man is standing outside the hotel looking at his phone, as if waiting for a taxi, but when the sliding glass doors open and the man turns around to see Minho pensively step out, Minho is shocked to see the man is wearing sunglasses.

Minho can’t help himself. “Who the hell wears sunglasses at four in the morning?” He wonders aloud.

The man removes the sunglasses from his face, and Minho is both scared and relieved to see that he is Korean as well. _So he heard me. Well fuck_. Lit by the garish yellow bulb outside, the man is shorter than Minho, with wide, curious, yet calculating eyes. His skin is smooth and tanned, his fingers are poised to drum against any surface. He’s dressed in pants and a T-shirt and sandals, and Minho feels so overdressed. His posture is relaxed and if he stopped slouching he might not look so short.

The man gives Minho a very piercing once over. “You look like you’re dressed to meet the mob,” he says in Korean. “You off to double-tap someone at the Punta Raisi?”

“Huh?” Smooth, Choi. Minho looks at his rumpled business casual. “No, not part of any mob. Just…” he trails off.

The man cocks his head up. His body is taut with boundless energy. “What is a Korean doing all alone in Palermo?”

Minho’s brain finally catches up. “I could ask you the same thing.”

The man chuckles. “The thing is,” he says. “ _I know where I am_.”

“Technically I know where I am as well.”

“You look so lost man, first time in Sicily?”

“You can tell?”

“Anyone can tell. What are you doing up at night?”

Minho scratches his temple, scuffs the pavement with his shoe. “I haven’t eaten since we flew over France.”

“And that was…?”

“… Ten hours ago?”

“Aish, that is a while. I am hungry as well, just figuring out what I’m for is the problem. I usually don’t eat this early, but my stomach is demanding sustenance. There are a few great restaurants in walking distance that open early because of the dockhands, and will open even earlier now that Carnevale is soon to start.”

“What is that?”

“Some unofficial continuation of Germany’s Carnevale, that quickly caught on and stuck here. People love it so much that maybe this year they’ll make it really official or something. Usually it’s during Germany’s Oktoberfest, but they pushed it back to combine it with the holy Monreale festival.”

“Oh.” Minho is starting to feel famished. The man notices.

“I will explain it over some food. Come on, you look hungry enough to eat a horse.”

▲

 

The man has a weird sense of humor apparently, because after walking for fifteen minutes they reach a very small trattoria that has a litter of Sicilian stragglers sitting by tiny tables. There are some that look like they’ve been out all night, and some that look like they’ve just woken up and in dire need of a wake-up boost. The man cajoles to the talking men in rapid fire Italian, and at least five respond (the drunk ones). Someone says something in heavily accented and slurred English, but Minho can’t decipher what they said.

“A little too early to be on the sauce, no?” Minho says.

The man shrugs. “Or too late,” he answers. “Get that seat over there. I’ll go order us some food.” He saunters off to the trattoria where the proprietors are grilling inside and outside. The smell of smoke and foreign meat mixes in with Minho’s sweat and airplane-recycled air scent, and he really wishes he showered. But the natives that keep glancing at him are too tired and too drunk to care, so Minho sits, and looks at the trattoria façade. It takes a moment for his travel-worn brain to translate trattoria to some informal form of _café_ , but only a second to see the word _Equina_ to be-

“You look hungry enough to eat a horse, eh?” The man grins as he returns with two glasses and a bottle of wine. One proprietor is closely behind with a plate of local flatbread, olives, and hard cheeses.

“We’re going to fucking _eat horses_?” Minho literally hisses and the man blinks at him. Minho rears back, coughs out an apology and blames it on being hungry.

“In Korea we eat raw squid, and wriggling octopus, and sometimes we eat dog, but you freak at _horse_? Don’t knock it until you try it, what’s your name-“

“Minho. Choi Minho.”

“-Minho. It’s damn good. Don’t be shy to eat it. It’s delicious, especially with the lemon and olive oil, it’s just,” the man sighs and pours Minho’s glass first and Minho still remembers he’s Korean it’s rude to let a fellow diner pour his own drink. When glasses are appropriately filled, the man lazily clinks his to Minho’s and sips. Slowly, but surely the town begins to wake up. There are few cars weaving slowly through some people aimlessly walking in the streets. It’s 5:15 when the proprietor comes back with a platter too big for the tiny table, but he manages to fit it by the nearly empty plate of flatbread and olives. The man gives off a quick _grazie_ before he liberally squeezes lemon all over the steaming pile of meat. Minho gulps. He’s been known to eat for five people, but didn’t have the most adventurous palate.

The man digs in and softly moans in joy at the taste. “Man, that can be better than galbi, I swear,” he praises, this time taking another piece and rolling it up in bread and olive. Minho finds himself picking up a piece of horseflesh and eating it, his stomach crying in relief for protein.

“So?” the man asks.

All Minho can taste is the lemon juice, and he’s certain he chewed and swallowed the seed. “What did the horse do to deserve this?” Is all he asks. He doesn’t mean to come off as rude, and the man can see that.

The man chuckles and sips more wine. “He lost,” he answers. “You bet on horse racing, and the winner races another day, and the loser-“

“Is horse bulgogi. Nice.”

“So, _Minho_ ,” the man is loosened up after having proper amounts of wine and food in his system. “What brings you here to the lovely charming town of Palermo?”

And Minho tells him, every detail. He finds that horseflesh and wine makes a perfect ice-breaker. At the end the man is wincing, with a “aish, and that Sungmin man is right. Want to spend _fifty eight hundred_ in Euros to be in a cramped taxi that’s going to most likely not make it to the foot of Italy? You’re better off waiting.”

“But it’s 2016, I’ve never heard of flights just stopping unless it’s something catastrophically serious.”

The man shrugs. “It’s just the way things are,” he simply replies. The streetlamps show off the amber of the man’s eyes, casts artful shadows across his lounging figure. “But take this opportunity to explore the charm of Palermo. _Sicilia_ is just, I don’t know- magical? That’s cliché, but I can’t stop visiting. I have nothing but love for it.” He refills Minho’s wine glass and Minho refills his. They taper off into silence and eat the rest of the horse; the man with enthusiasm, Minho still just tasting lemon. The drunk Sicilians have stumbled off to bed, and the dock workers trudge off after being properly filled. Minho offers to pay for the meal (“I have been poor company, let me repay for the kindness”) but the man shakes his head and says it’s all been taken care of.

“You know what you can do, Minho?” The man offers. “Don’t be so beat up about your travel mishap. Embrace this little fuck up and fall in love with the country. It could always be worse.”

“It could, it’s just…”

“You have such an unshakable worker-bee mentality, you ever just relax and roll with the punches?”

“Not really.”

“Well,” the man prods Minho’s shoulder with his finger, jerky movements loosened by alcohol. “You can repay me by _having a great time_. There’s two festivals happening at once. So much to see, there’s a freaking _castle by the hotel_ , for Christ’ sake. A perfect vacation laid at your feet. You better pick it up and cherish that shit, Choi.” He gets up and stretches and Minho follows suit. After bidding the proprietor adieu the man heads the opposite direction, and Minho feels like a lost kid imprinting on the first person who has shown him a kindness and feels duty-bound to follow him. The man knows Minho is still with him and doesn’t complain, in fact he grins as he goes to put on his sunglasses once more. It’s still dark, but the azure sky is starting to lighten. Cafés in street corners are starting to fill with hungry festival goers and workers. The man leads Minho to the further end of the port, where the buildings are shorter and there’s less traffic. The sky is lightening up in increments, and the clamor of the festival is background noise as Minho takes the man’s advice and _takes it all in_. The sun eventually is making itself known at 6:55 and the man stops, breathes deep, and cracks his back as he watches the sun rise.

“Now how can you beat _that?_ ” He looks at Minho and peers at him. Minho looks back, notices the tender light reflecting off the black shades, the tan skin.

_Sun-kissed. Amber behind the black._

Minho finds himself smiling. “I should get back to the hotel,” he says. The man points the way they came from, and Minho hopes his muscle memory is just as good as he wishes. “I’ll see you around, I hope-“

“Oh goodness, where are my manners. I’m Kim Jonghyun.” The man named Jonghyun offers a hand to shake, and Minho takes it. “Yeah, we’ll bump into each other. Same hotel, and what not. Take it easy okay?” Jonghyun waves as Minho turns back from where they came, and when Minho chances to look back, he looks in time to see Jonghyun turn back to face the rising sun, basking in the weak orange glow.

Minho burps lightly and faintly tastes the gamey flavor of horse. It’s nothing like galbi.

**Author's Note:**

> for Najla (dreams-that-have-faded@tumblr) happy birthday my dear! this is something I started five years ago, and I felt bad for dropping it into the dust, and it wasn't supposed to be that long but!!!! and it really wasn't supposed to be so long, or multi-chaptered, but as the cool kids say YOLO. Jongho for you, my sweet. I hope your birthday is filled with joy and great food and surrounded by loved ones. Minho is still our sweet princeling but I like grouchy!Minho sometimes. sometimes.
> 
> I took some creative liberties because I have never been to Sicily, haven't been to Italy since 2010, and know that flights don't work like that! but please see "Wes Anderson amount of fictional misfortune" 고맙습니다. Monreale is part of Palermo, not really a festival name it's just something I slapped on because there is a holy festival at that time and I don't know the name off the top of my head. and Karneval is during February in Germany but just pretend that they also observe it in October during Oktoberfest and long ago some German settlers after the War came to Palermo and brought it and it stuck like tape just! let me live homie!
> 
> WES ANDERSON AMOUNTS OF FICTIONAL MISFORTUNE


End file.
